Remembering Yesterday
by lachandelle
Summary: A global outbreak of a lethal, airborne virus has decimated modern day society. It has been five hundred days since worldwide governments went offline. Those who carry on are forced to face new dangers every day. Fight the dead; fear the living. This fanfic is based on AMC's television show: "The Walking Dead". I reserve only the rights to Tabatha Culver and Marlowe Thompson.
1. Chapter One

Summertime was so very fleeting in many places on Earth. In the north, a mere three months were devoted to humid, roasting temperatures. To the east, constant rainfall often prevented the sun to shine. To the west, soothing winds offered relief from the heat. However, those who lived due south knew nothing but summer. The wind nor the rain offered any relief to those sweltering under the sky. Such a climate was well suited to those who had mastered it, and even then did they sweat.

The day was marked by the premise of a storm. Dark, angry clouds had been gathering overhead for little more than two hours. The sweltering hot days and humid nights had no doubt given rise to a cold front. There had not been a storm in weeks, and now, it seemed that one was imminent. When it did strike, it was likely to be one of the largest seen that season. For now, all was calm. The wind did not stir, the trees did not quiver, and the clouds did not cry. Whether or not conditions would remain peaceful was anyone's guess.

Under the darkening sky lay a winding country road. It was paved roughly and had seen better days, but nevertheless, it was usable. The car which drove upon it had seen that route many times. It was one of the few roads left that was not riddled with upturned automobiles or an unsightly hoard of undead beings. Within the car was a rather unusual compilation of company. It was surprising to see them together on a reconnaissance mission.

In the driver's seat was ex-sheriff Rick Grimes. He was once a very hard-faced man with a passion for justice. Now, he was a tired, aging man with a crumbling psyche. In the passenger's seat was Daryl Dixon. Some would mistake him for a backwoods hillbilly, but those who knew him well valued his friendship. Lastly were the two women who rode in the rear. Their names were Carol Peletier and Marlowe Thompson. Carol, a previous abuse victim, had come so very far. She could hold her own, shoot a gun, and save face. The other woman was little more than a leech - a little parasite, if you will.

Marlowe Thompson was not an average post-apocalypse survivor. If anything, she was living a life that was no longer hers. The sudden change in society had wracked her to her very core. Some people handled shock rather well, but Marlowe had resorted to various other ways of coping. More often than not, she focused on her vanity than on performing her chores. Her well-manicured nails and plump, red lips spoke to her habits. It was a wonder that she had not yet been excommunicated. Unbeknownst to her, said topic had come up once or twice during council meetings. The sole reason for her continued residence was pity. Other colony members pitied her for her lack of realization. Instead of casting her away, the small council had vowed to better her survival skills. Allowing her to tag along during a supply run would benefit her in that way.

The road was long and the ride full of silence. The short girl with a well-kept bob peered out the window. She was lost in her thoughts as usual. It was not until Rock turned on the radio that she was torn from them. She lowered her elbow from the window, place both hands in her lap, and straightened her posture. She and Carol had not spoken very much, though it was not unusual. Marlowe was a very withdrawn person. Her introverted nature had reclaimed her upon the destruction of Woodbury. It had been her safe haven: a place where she could go on pretending. Without it, she felt vulnerable, scared, and lonesome. No one would know as much. It wasn't as if she made an attempt to be friendly.

As the radio chirped into life, Daryl immediately leaned forward and grasped the volume dial with his dirt-stained fingers. He turned it up just enough to dampen the whir of the wheels turning below them.

"Fuckin' love this song. Haven't heard it in a while."

The radio played "The Gambler" by Kenny Rodgers. It was a folk song written in the voice of a reminiscent southern man. Marlowe did not care for it very much, but nonetheless, she listened. Every so often Carol would look out the window, quietly humming along with the words. Rick's choice in music had not lightened the mood, but it had unified everybody in an unspoken way. They were all listening to the same song, riding in the same car, and going to the same place.

Roughly fifteen minutes later, the light green Hyundai Tucson pulled up to a rough looking country pit stop. While it may have once been a haven for business, it was now little more than an empty brick building. In front of the general store were two old gas pumps. Between them was a bloody, dirt stained sign that read "pump it yourself". It was another lonely reminder of how life used to be before the outbreak and decline of mankind. The car rolled to a stop in front of a pump and a cloud of dry dust lifted behind its tires. Those who were inside the car took a moment to collect their wits before venturing forth.

"Well what are we waiting for, Christmas?" Daryl spoke first. He was most eager to start scouting the area.

Daryl reached behind his seat and gripped his crossbow. It had been resting between Marlowe's legs for the entirety of the car ride. Instead of helping him retrieve it, she looked on in silence. The damn thing was caught and still she did nothing. It was as if she were momentarily frozen. Her eyes, large and brown, were comparable to those of a startled doe. What a dumb little thing she could be.

Daryl frowned and violently yanked it free. "Gee, you're useful." He grunted and slammed his back into his seat.

"Come on, now. She's never done this before. Give her some credit." Carol sighed and looked out of the window.

The man sitting in the driver's seat gave a soft sigh as he listened to the scorn of his shotgun passenger. Daryl was a decent man, but he did have a tendency to say the wrong thing. He was a southern man with a tough tongue and a stiff upper lip. Rick respected Daryl both as a hunter and as a friend. However, there had been times in the past when even he had been the subject of his frustration. When the two men had first met, they had not been overly fond of each other. If anything, Daryl had wanted his head for what he had done back in Atlanta. A small smirk crossed Rock's face when he thought of that day. It had been an unfortunate event, but the two of them had come so far. Since then, they had formed an unspoken, brotherly bond.

Remembering the task at hand, Rick slung his right arm behind his own seat and propped himself up. His soft-colored eyes drifted from person to person. He studied each of them, preparing to address what needed to be done. Since he had requited his position as a colony leader, his character lacked a sense of authority. Nevertheless, those in cahoots with him knew of his worthiness to command them. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Rick prepared himself to speak.

"Alright, now let's prioritize what needs to get done." He brushed a hand over his neck. "We have enough food to last us two weeks. That's one can, per person, per meal."

Daryl interjected, "What about little ass kicker? She need formula or diapers?"

Rick looked back to Daryl and established direct eye contact. "If there are any, grab them. We also need medical supplies and a few creature comforts. We're low on toilet paper and toothpaste. I want you and Carol to go scout out that store over there."

Rick gestured with his pointer finger to the lonely looking convenience center. It was an eerie shop made of brick and mortar. The walls were singed with ash, as if they had seen fire in recent days. A few sticky, gelatinous corpses near the entryway proved as much. Somebody must have burned the bodies in an attempt to mask the smell of decay. The area otherwise looked untouched.

"Sounds good to me. Let's go, Daryl." Carol opened her car door and stepped out into the afternoon gloom. Before shutting her door, she gave Marlowe a sympathetic parting glance.

As the door clicked shut, Marlowe found herself in the car with Rick. She watched idly as he busied himself with preparation. He rolled up his sleeves, loosened his collar, and holstered his pistol. He was a curious man to watch. Before he could catch her staring, she looked away and busied herself with her own affairs. She studied her nails and chipped away at the stray bits of paint aligning her cuticles.

"Not my best work…" Marlowe thought this allowed and tilted her head s she continued to pick.

Rick turned, "Excuse me? I didn't hear what you said."

"Oh, it was nothing." Marlowe put her hands away and leaned back. She avoided his eyes.

"…Right." Rick turned and opened up his car door. "While the other two check out the store, I was hoping that you could help me fill up a few fuel canisters."

Rick exited the car, shut the door, and rounded the chassis. He stopped at the rear of it and unlocked the trunk. He pulled on it, raised it over his head, and peered inside. He noted that Marlowe was still sitting in the car. With a frustrated grunt, he reached in and pulled out all of the oil cans himself.

"Anytime you're ready." Rick palced a hand on the car, tilted his head, and watched her with a stern expression.

Marlowe exited the car shortly after he addressed her. She could tell by his tone that he was not in the mood to muck around. She gently closed the door and, as he had, rounded the car. She met him at his right side and held out a hand. There was one thing to be said for her: Marlowe was very good at being silent. It was that skill alone which had kept her alive thus far. She was otherwise useless, unfortunately.

Rick sighed to himself and handed her one of the three canisters. He took the other two and stepped away from the car. He had left the trunk ajar for convenience sake. There was no point in shutting it if they were to be done shortly. He took his two cans and walked up to the closest pump. It was caked in a layer of dirt-covered rust. He frowned, stooped down to it, and had a look. The hose had been cut quite a while ago. It did not look promising. Regardless of appearance, he decided to give the pump a try.

He brought to hose to his lips, gave it a few draws, and waited. He was hoping to feel a rush of gasoline against his lips. All he could taste were the fumes. Begrudgingly, he removed his lips from the hose and turned aside. No luck, there. Without saying a word, he rose and walked towards the other pump. Rick stooped down once more, grabbed the hose, and repeated the process. To his surprise, a faint dribble of gasoline began to lap against his tongue. He smiled, pulled away, and motioned for a canister.

Marlowe unscrewed the cap and handed it to him. What a boring job. Then again, it was far less daunting than entering an old, dark store. While Rick filled the can, she looked over towards the structure. She could no longer see Daryl and Carol. She idly wondered what they were doing inside. Were they having any luck or was there nothing to be found?

Meanwhile, Daryl and Carol had busied themselves scrounging around upturned shelves and trampled, old, merchandise. Upon entering the establishment, Daryl had noted a rather odd scent in the air. It was one of cigarette smoke and of freshly fired bullet casings. The interior itself looked uninhabited, but the smell made his skin crawl. It was very rare of him to get goose bumps. His intuition warned him to be on the alert, and so he had been for the entirety of their stay. It was not until he thought of Carol that he remembered the smell. He should have cautioned her before they separated. A heavy feeling weighed in the pit of his stomach as he continued to rummage through the debris around his feet.

No sooner than he remembered his uneasiness, a gun had been pressed to his neck. Its cold, smooth barrel tickled his spine. Once more, a series of chills wracked his body. He did not act surprised. He merely lowered his crossbow and put his hands in the air to show submission. Whomever had cornered him was certainly not in the mood to play games, and so, he kept his mouth shut. No sense in making a fuss, especially when sound carried. He also had the others to think about. If they were safe, he did not want them to risk their lives attempting to rescue him. He assured himself that they were alright, but he could not help but feel just the slightest bit of apprehension. All he could do was hold his ground and hope for their safety.


	2. Chapter Two

"Pick up your weapon. I just wanted to see if you were friendly."

With a soft click, the gun was released from Daryl's neck and secured back into its holster. Whoever had been holding it to him clearly wished him no harm. Bending forward at the waist, Daryl slowly clenched his fingers around his crossbow. He made no sudden movements for fear of startling the person behind him. Once he had a firm grip on the stock, he tugged his weapon forward. The heavy object dragging along the dirty, linoleum floor emitted a sound similar to nails upon a blackboard. It was enough to make Daryl clench his teeth and grimace.

Steadying himself and regaining his pride, Daryl straightened his spine to stand tall. The gruff man gave his well-muscled shoulders a roll before turning to face his adversary. In a final attempt to gather his wits, he cracked his neck. Doing so made him feel manly to an extent. Though he had said nothing, Daryl had felt a wave of emasculation wash over him the very moment he had been permitted to pick up his crossbow. His reason for such an emotion was quite simple: the person who had threatened him was a woman.

"It's been a while since I've seen another person. I'm sorry if I scared you."

Daryl gave a snort to the woman's comment as he laid his eyes upon her. In full view, he could see that she was a few inches shorter than him; she was also much less muscular. He could not believe that he had let her bully him into submission. The flush that had risen into his cheeks had nothing to do with untold fondness. Daryl was, in a word, irritated.

"You didn't scare me, lady. Just not used to getting a gun pointed at me for no reason."

The woman before him gave a sigh and laid her left hand protectively over her holster. She was no longer in fear of engaging the man in a fight, but she wasn't at ease, either. She hadn't been in the presence of a living human being for three months at the very least. She had, unfortunately, lost count of the numberless days. Fortunately for Daryl, she seemed to have her wits about her. The same could not be said for many of those in her situation. Solidarity did not sit well with some people.

Noting her defensiveness, Daryl quirked a brow. "So, uh…ya got a name?"

"Of course I have a name." she lifted her gaze and set it on Daryl's face. "It's Tabatha."

Daryl lowered his crossbow and rested it on his thigh. "Nice name. Mine's Daryl."

Just as the man offered his dirt-crusted hand to shake, the sound of someone's hurried step interrupted them. Instinctively, Tabatha tore away from him and reached for her gun. She had barely looped her finger around the trigger before she heard something click across the room. Casting her eyes in that direction, she found herself looking at a skinny near-bald woman. She was standing roughly fifteen feet away from she and Daryl with a gun pointed at her head. Not wishing to start a fight, Tabatha forced herself to stand down. She relaxed her shoulders and cast her eyes aside. She, like Daryl, had been required to swallow her pride.

Daryl raised his right hand in defense. "Carol, take it easy. She ain't gonna hurt you."

Apparently, the scraggly-looking woman had a name! Tabatha continued to stare at the ground even after Carol had lowered her weapon. She no longer had any desire to socialize with the man to her left; and she certainly had nothing to say to the gun-flailing "Carol". In her moment of silence, she scrutinized the way in which Carol had defended herself: locked elbows, wide stance – what a joke.

Without a word, Carol holstered her weapon. She slipped it behind her back and tucked it into the waistband of her jeans. As she did, she simultaneously studied the expression resting over Tabatha's face. She seemed to be lost in thought – or perhaps just laden with indifference. Either way, she seemed docile enough to be reasoned with. Maybe Daryl wasn't such a bad judge of character after all.

"Could have had me fooled." Carol mumbled under her breath and looked away.

"Where were you, anyway?" Daryl stepped aside and began to approach Carol.

"I went outside to bring Rick and Marlowe some water. Came back in here and saw you with _her_."

No longer feeling withdrawn, Tabatha lifted her head. She put one hand on her hip, shifted her weight, and made direct eye contact with Carol. She blinked a few times and continued to study her. She was such a mousy little thing! Who was she to address her presence with arrogance? The tired blonde gave a sigh and shook her head in the smallest way.

"I have a name, _Carol_," she said through clenched teeth, "my name is Tabatha."

"Well, _Tabatha_ …It's nice to meet you. It's always good to make the acquaintance of the living."

Daryl slung his crossbow over his shoulder and turned around. He was standing next to Carol on her right and regarding Tabatha with a calm expression. It seemed that he had made his peace with her. If Carol could do the same, perhaps some progress could be made between the three. He too shifted his weight and bent his knees. An awkward silence had settled over the trio. He didn't quite know what to say – if anything at all.

Tabatha was the first to break the silence. "You have other people with you?"

Daryl turned to Carol and quirked a brow before returning Tabatha's stare. "Well – yeah, we do."

Surprisingly, Tabatha didn't ask anything more of them. She did not ask (nor beg) to join them or to meet their comrades. She simply nodded in a thoughtful way and took a few steps back. She had been on her own for a very, very long time. While the notion of being so close to the living was comforting, she could bring herself to be excited. Tabatha was well-versed in the new life that had been afforded to her. Friendships and alliances, in her opinion, were useless. Being in a group slowed one down; it also promoted feelings of companionship. She couldn't fathom reliving the acute loss of a loved one. In the current state of the world, attachment was a dangerous game to play.

"So what were you doing here, anyway - looking for supplies like us?" Daryl rubbed the back of his neck.

"What? Oh – no. I've been living in here." Tabatha gestured to the small shop and gave a shrug.

Carol interjected, "I take it that you're the one who barbequed those two walkers outside?"

"Is that what you call them – 'walkers'?" Tabatha raised her brows in curiosity.

Daryl gave a snort and nodded. "Yeah. What do you call 'em?"

Tabatha shook her head and spoke, "I don't really call them anything to be honest – but yeah, I did."

After exchanging a few curious glances, Carol allowed a smile to crease her dry lips. It was in that moment that she realized that she had been a bit hard on the woman before her. Tabatha was nothing more than a cautious, careful survivor. She could understand her previous defensiveness to a degree; after all, Carol had been in a similar position the year before. The death of her daughter had left her quite disheveled. If she had been on her own after such a loss, she likely would have spiraled into sheer madness. The presence of her familiars had made her strong. Carol had a much different opinion on companionship than Tabatha did: friendship made one mentally stable and made life much more enjoyable.

Another long silence persisted over the three people in the shop. Oddly enough, it wasn't nearly as heavy as the one that preceded it. Tabatha felt slightly more comfortable with the two marauders – but only just. She would have preferred to part ways and go about her usual business. Before Carol and Daryl had arrived at her current abode, she had been on a supply run herself. Most of the canned food and beef jerky that had once stocked the overturned shelves had been taken by passersby in the past. The only useful things which remained were unexpired bottles of Advil, baby wipes, and some cosmetic products. Tabatha had no purpose for the latter items. She did, however, value water. She had scavenged six bottles from a nearby CVS the day before. If she remembered correctly, Carol had taken two of said six to her buddies outside.

Tabatha took a step aside. "As you can see, there isn't much left to scavenge. Help yourself to whatever you can find."

Carol adjusted the black backpack that was slung over her shoulder. "Thank you. We appreciate it."

"Looks like you've already gotten off to a good start." Tabatha crossed her arms.

"Yeah, well…" Carol shrugged and tilted her head. "I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not."

Tabatha gave her a smirk. "You'll know when I'm being sarcastic." She paused for a moment before continuing. "Better be on your way soon. I don't know how much longer the weather will hold out."

"You seem to have made out well enough," Daryl interjected, "why're you still here, anyway – got nowhere else to go?"

Tabatha stayed quiet for a considerable amount of time. She didn't really want to explain her reasons for choosing solidarity, nor did she want to discuss her current location. She felt as if her business was her own to keep. She had only known the two for no more than fifteen minutes. Surely Daryl couldn't expect her to reveal herself so easily – could he?

"…It's personal." She shrugged to him in slight indifference.

"Alright, I'll respect that."

Daryl took a moment to look around the store. He had been wondering for the past few minutes if anyone else resided there with Tabatha. She seemed to be on her own; he had surmised as much judging by her condition. The blonde had definitely seen better days. Her dust-streaked blonde hair, sallow eyes sockets, and lack of muscle tone worried him. As he beheld her, he caught himself in the midst of his thoughts. He barely knew the woman; what reason had he to care? She had held a gun to his neck no more than half an hour ago. Her welfare should have been the least of his concern.

"So you got anyone else with you or are ya by yourself?" Daryl proposed his question with a degree of self-loathing.

"I'm by myself. What, is it obvious?" Tabatha quirked a grin and managed a small, amused grunt.

"Well no offense but you don't look so good. When was the last time you had something decent to eat?"

The rogue woman had been standing with her arms crossed for a considerable amount of time. At the proposal of Daryl's question, she tightened them around her chest. He had unknowingly made her uncomfortable. Heaving a sigh, she brought her sunken eyes back to those of the rugged outdoorsman.

"I don't know – a while, I reckon. I can't remember." Tabatha shook her head and gave a nonchalant shrug. "I've been getting by on one can of soup per day. If I'm lucky I can catch a rat or two in the alleyway out back."

Without a word, Daryl mulled over Tabatha's confession. He admired her honesty and her ability to save face. He had met other women in the past that could hardly retain their composure in large groups, let alone by themselves. He was, in a word, impressed. Sparing a moment, he turned to his left to look at Carol. He gave her a brief rise of his brows in an attempt to gain her attention.

"Can I speak with you for a minute?" Daryl tugged his head in the direction of the entrance.

"Oh – who, me?" Carol paused for a moment before realizing her error. "Yeah - yes. Yes you can."

The two companions turned away from Tabatha and began to make their way towards the entrance of the convenience store. There weren't many places the two could go for privacy. Daryl wished to speak with Carol about their newest acquaintance. She had been generous in allowing them to take without consequence. It wasn't often that he came across somebody who was of sound mind. There must have been something that he and Carol could do to show their appreciation. When he decided that they were out of earshot, Daryl came to a stop. He turned and leaned against the far wall with his crossbow hung low between his legs.

"What's up?" Carol slowed and took a stand in front of him.

Daryl sighed and reached up to massage his neck. "Look, I already know what you're gonna say, but – damn it I feel like we should do something for her, you know?"

Carol tilted her head to the right. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Well it's no secret that she could use a hot meal, Carol. Maybe we should take her back with us."

"And do what? Roll out the welcome mat?" Carol crossed her arms defensively. "You know as well as I do that it's not a good idea. Rick would never go for it, anyhow."

Daryl frowned, "I guess we won't know unless we ask him, huh?"

Daryl pushed away from the wall with an unhappy expression. He understood Carol's reservation to a degree but found her to be rather selfish. They had unknowingly traipsed into someone's camp and raided what few supplies they had had left. The least they could do for her would be to feed her and send her on her way.

Stopping a few feet short of Tabatha, he raised his hand and signaled to her. "How would you like to come back to our camp with us? Looks like you could use a good meal and some company."

Tabatha hesitated momentarily. While mulling over his proposal, her eyes wandered to the woman by the door. She watched as Carol sighed and heatedly rolled her eyes. She seemed to disagree with Daryl about being hospitable. She understood the woman's reservations and didn't hold them against her in the least. If the tables had been turned, Tabatha would have likely had the same reaction. After a considerable amount of silence, Tabatha gave a small nod of acknowledgement

"Thanks. I appreciate it, but I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Well why don't you come out with us and meet the others before making your decision. I'm sure they'd like to meet you."

Tabatha gave a slightly exasperated sigh. "…Fine. Sure, why not."

Setting her reservations aside, Tabatha plucked up a bit of courage. She slid her hands into the pockets of her forest camis and issued a shrug. She still retained the pistol on her left hip. If any funny business unfolded upon their rendezvous with "the others", she could easily defend herself. It was a slightly barbaric thought but it gave her comfort nonetheless. Tabatha strode forward calmly and listened only to the sound of her tan combat boots pounding the floor. As she passed Carol and exited the store, Tabatha made no effort to address her. She could feel the thick tension between she and Daryl; it was best for her to keep out of their business.

"Why did you bother asking for my opinion if you were going to disregard it anyway?" Carol allowed Daryl to pass before following after him.

"Dunno. I guess I thought you'd be cool about it." He shrugged and looked up to the sky. "Still looks like it's gonna rain."

"Yeah, well…worry less about the weather and more about what Rick has to say. I don't know how thrilled he's going to be, either."


	3. Chapter Three

Fayetteville, Georgia had once been a quiet, peaceful township. It had been a quaint little place to live for young and old alike. Many people had had the privilege of calling Fayetteville home before the outbreak. Few who had endured could say the same. Its once tourist-filled streets had been claimed by the dead. The city, its picturesque homes, and its historic shops would forever be forgotten.

The old Georgia town had been inhospitable for months. Tabatha was, perhaps, the only living person who had stayed. It was anyone's guess as to why she had, but neither stranger had the heart to ask. In truth, Tabatha had been squatting in the little shop for longer than either of them could have guessed. She had long since lost count of the numberless days since arriving. Time mattered not in a world without clocks.

Ignorant to the newly arrived, Rick and Marlowe continued to work. Thus far, they had managed to fill one of the four gas canisters. The prospect of siphoning anything more from the worn hose wasn't very promising. They were lucky to have gotten any at all. Many of the gas stations in neighboring towns had long since run dry. Perhaps Rick had been overly zealous in bringing four gas cans. He had been optimistic – who could blame him? Optimism was one of the few things that the survivors had left. Without it, they were no better than the soulless ghouls roaming the streets.

Rick let out a rough sigh and yanked on the gas line. The stream had slowed considerably since he had begun. The second can was roughly one quarter full. Logically, Rick knew that the well held nothing more for him to take. After giving the hose one last tug, he removed it from the canister and recoiled from the pump. Before screwing the cap back on the jug, he took a moment to collect himself. The air was thick and humid. He had worked up a sweat in the time that he had been servicing the station. He frowned, released a hum, and ran his hand over his neck. He was sore and tired. Rick had been awake since six 'o clock in the morning. Before setting off on reconnaissance, he had been busy tending the garden. He was understandably fatigued.

While Rick had worked at filling the cans, Marlowe had stood by watching. She hadn't contributed much since arriving to the station. Thus far, she had only managed to assist Rick by putting the filled jug into the trunk. Rick and the others had chosen to bring her along in the hopes of gaining her assistance. They had also wanted to teach her how to scout. No one had tipped her off, but there had been talk of releasing the brown-haired femme into the wild. Her largest contribution to the colony thus far had been her culinary talent. Marlowe could make a mean batch of homemade macaroni. Otherwise, she was virtually useless. She rarely volunteered to take watch and she often refused to assist other colonists. Above all else, Marlowe never agreed to venture out of the prison.

One would think that the girl would have been grateful to the prison group. She, like some of the others, had entered after the fall of Woodbury. Rick and his companions had been honorable enough to shelter her. Though kindness had been extended to her, she had yet to repay it. She was little more than a parasite thriving off of the work of others. If she couldn't change her ways, Marlowe would surely be cast out of the prison.

Marlowe stood by idly with her arms crossed over her chest. She was leaning up against the car and had been since Rick had begun his work. She had merely observed him for the entirety of their stay. She had wanted to help him but was still unsure of how to do so. She had been told in the past how useless she was. Maybe she had begun to believe it. As Rick rocked back onto his knees, she tilted her head curiously. What was he up to? She had been watching him for a while but she hadn't been paying much attention.

"…What's up?" Marlowe spoke up suddenly and uncrossed her arms. "Need a hand?"

Rick withheld from rolling his eyes and turned his head over his right shoulder. "Could have used one a few minutes ago."

Rick ignored Marlowe's offer and grabbed the can himself. With a grunt, he forced himself to stand. He staggered forward slightly before recovering. his legs felt like jelly. He had been squatting down for quite a while. As he turned around, he put a hand on his left hip. He beheld Marlowe with an indifferent stare. He was annoyed to say the very least. All frustration aside, he was too tired to address her incompetence. Perhaps he would discuss the matter with her when they returned to their makeshift home.

Without saying a word, Rick shook his head. He then moved aside and paced to the open trunk of their car. He placed the second jug in the back next to the first and studied them both. He was missing the other two cans. Rick stepped away from the trunk and slowly wandered back to Marlowe. He blinked slowly and raised his hand in an authoritative manner.

"I'd appreciate it if you would put the other two canisters back in the trunk." He ran a hand over his sweaty brow. "Think you can manage that?"

Marlowe nodded, "Yeah. I can do that."

Marlowe turned away from him and went to busy herself elsewhere. Rick watched her for a moment before turning his back and walking away. He did so with his head down and both hands on his hips. The humidity in the air was making it hard to breathe. Though the foreboding sky promised a rain shower, he had yet to feel even the smallest drop. As he strayed from the car, the sound of leather soles on concrete met his ears. He immediately lifted his head to meet the source. Rick had expected to see Daryl or Carol approaching him. Instead, he saw a stranger.

Rick placed his left hand on his gun and gripped it cautiously. At first glance, he had mistaken the stranger for a walker. She looked absolutely dreadful. She had blanched, thin skin and it was stretched tightly over her bones. It was a wonder that she had survived thus far. Instead of brandishing his gun at her, Rick relaxed his shoulders and calmed her nerves. She posed little threat to him. Before he had a chance to address her, he heard Daryl and Carol conversing in the distance. He lifted his eyes and set them on the fraternizing pair.

"Who's this?" Rick addressed them both and lifted his chin.

Daryl stopped talking to the woman by his side and acknowledged Rick. He did so with a determined nod before quickening his pace. He strode with confidence toward Tabatha and the ex-sheriff. His eyes were full of resolve. He was determined to speak with Rick about the strange woman. He slung his crossbow over his right shoulder and shoved his left hand into his pocket. He approached casually with an air of confidence.

"Her name's Tabatha." Daryl called out to Rick as he slowed to a stop. "She's been living here."

"…I can speak for myself." Tabatha interjected and shot Daryl a look of warning.

The woman might have looked disheveled, but she was not incapable of presenting herself. She had taken a small bit of offense from Daryl's disregard for her presence. Putting her hands on her hips, Tabatha turned her eyes to the rugged, brown-haired man. He seemed tired and devoid of emotion. She could relate. So much had happened over the course of the last year. She had seen many unspeakable things in her lost, lonely days. Her eyes no longer held notes of hope. They were empty, pallid, and cold.

"Well go on and speak, then. Shit." Daryl rubbed the back of his neck and grumbled softly.

Carol reached the trio before anything more could be said. She stood on the other side of Tabatha and crossed her arms. She was displaying a stance of defensiveness. She still hung onto her former opinion. She didn't think it appropriate to concern Rick with the presence of a stranger. Thankfully, Tabatha didn't seem too interested in attending them to the prison. She seemed too reserved – too proud, even. She mentally sneered at the thought. What had she to be proud of? She was alone and days away from starvation.

"You've been living here?" Rick rose his brows curiously and put his hands on his hips. "For how long?"

"That's my business." Tabatha inhaled and narrowed her eyes a little bit.

"Fair enough." He surrendered his first question and served up another. "What do you want?"

Carol interrupted, "Daryl wants to bring her back with us."

A long pause followed Carol's exclamation. The only sound that could be heard was the wind in the trees. Daryl had hoped to ease Rick into the notion of helping a stranger. Carol clearly hadn't had the sense to hold her tongue. He didn't blame her much; he knew how agitated he had made her. It was he who broke the tension. Daryl cleared his throat and shifted his weight before saying a word. He cast his eyes to his left and gave Carol a critical stare.

"Way to be discrete," Daryl said sarcastically, "I would have been a bit more tactful than that."

"It's in the open now. It doesn't matter." Carol further laced her arms together.

"What doesn't matter?"

A new voice chimed in among the others. Having finished the task assigned to her, Marlowe appeared from behind the car. She slowly put her hands into the pockets of her jeans and approached the group. Her doe-like eyes scanned the scene before her. She saw one factor that didn't belong. Who was the rouge blonde and what business did she have with the others? Noting her cocky stance, Marlowe narrowed her vision. She did have one talent: scrutiny. Modern society had ended and yet Marlowe retained her shallowness. It would do her no good in her newfound colony. Above all else, the girl needed an attitude adjustment.

The blonde in question had analyzed Marlowe with the same hard-faced criticism. She wore dark wash designer jeans, a striped shirt, and a black fedora. Was she out to impress somebody or was she simply ignorant? Whatever the reason for her posh appearance, it was none of Tabatha's business. She exhaled slowly and forced herself to look away. She had scarcely met the foursome. She knew not what to expect from any of them. Unknowingly, she had put herself into a rather nasty position. Sleepless nights and little food had been detrimental to her judgment. If they wished to, they could easily overpower her. Thankfully, none of them seemed interested in mugging or harming her.

Rick looked over his right shoulder to see Marlowe pacing towards them. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before turning around again. He had had enough to think about before Marlowe entered the scene. He wanted to disregard her question but he had no right to do so. Marlowe was a member of their colony. She had the right to know what they were discussing. With a soft sigh, Rick looked down at his boots. He studied them briefly before lifting his head again. He was no longer the executive leader of the group. He wished that the others would grow accustom to his resignation.

"We're just discussing what to do with her." Rick caught himself, "Her name's Tabatha."

"Tabatha?" Marlowe blinked a few times. "I had a friend named Tabatha once. I called her Tabby."

Tabatha lifted her head. "Good for you." She paused. "Don't call me that."

Sensing yet another wave of tension on the horizon, Daryl spoke up. "What do you think, Rick?"

Giving his neck another gentle squeeze, Rick contemplated the question. He and his hadn't sheltered a stranger in months. The last few stragglers had been survivors of Woodbury. He didn't have Glenn or Hershel present to advise him. He respected Daryl but questioned his judgment. he privately wondered if his pity for Tabatha overpowered his sense of awareness. Carol seemed to have her head in the right place. She didn't seem too keen on allowing the girl to join them. Either way, it looked like the decision was up to him. He was too tired to wait for them to compromise.

"You know my conditions about newcomers, Daryl." Rick turned his attention to Tabatha.

Before Rick could continue, Tabatha interjected. "I could just use a meal. I don't plan on staying."

"Regardless, I need to ask you a few questions. I need to know that you can be trusted."

"Alright. Shoot." Tabatha crossed her arms and waited patiently.

Before any questions could ensue, Carol stepped away from the woman's side. She strode toward Marlowe and took her by the hand. She had decided to give Rick, Daryl, and Tabatha their privacy. Neither man seemed to care for her opinion; she would keep Marlowe occupied in the meantime. Without a word, the two women filed toward the green Hyundai Tucson.

As they left, Rick talked to the sickly blonde again. "I usually ask for your name. I guess I'll ask for your rank instead."

Unlike Daryl or Carol, Rick had addressed Tabatha's attire. She dressed differently from other survivors that he had met in the past. Tabatha wore MARPAT desert camouflage pants, a faded olive t-shirt, and battered combat boots. Out of view were the dog tags hanging around Tabatha's neck. She hid them beneath the collar of her shirt. They were special to her for a very private reason. Her secrets were hers to keep.

"…I was an E6 before the world went to shit." Tabatha paused. "Staff Sergeant for the USMC."

At the time of the outbreak, Tabatha had not been serving on active duty. She had been a Reservist Marine. The government had ordered her into Atlanta to manage the masses. Tabatha had been serving there mere days before the city was declared uninhabitable. A piece of her had died during her service in Atlanta – a piece that she would never reclaim.

"Thank you for your service." Rick nodded to her.

"No need to thank me. I didn't do my job." Tabatha cleared her throat. "If I had we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Daryl gave a soft snort. "Was nothin' else you could have done. There were too many - still are."

"He's right. Now for the real questions." Rick rolled his shoulders before continuing. "How many walkers have you killed?"

"Too many to count." Tabatha motioned to the two burned corpses outside the shop. "Plus two."

Rick looked to the bodies. "How many people have you killed?"

Tabatha broke eye contact and ran a hand through her hair. She hadn't expected him to ask such a personal question. To any other person, it was hardly a private matter. Keeping her composure, Tabatha readied herself to answer him. She uttered the words "only one" before resuming her silence.

"Why?" Rick whispered his final question softly.

"I didn't want him to turn." Tabatha shrugged her shoulders and continued to stare at the ground.

The identity of her only victim remained a secret. Tabatha didn't wish to discuss him. She hadn't spoken of his existence to anybody since the end of humanity. She had answered Rick truthfully, but she would not allow any other questions. Her business would remain hers until otherwise decided.

"Alright. Well, you're welcome to come with us if you want to." Rick turned to look at the Tucson. "You can ride shotgun."

Instead of awaiting Tabatha's reply, Rick set off alone. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked toward the green SUV. His abandonment had left Daryl and Tabatha alone. The two stood side by side in silence as he left. Daryl had sensed her resolve but knew not what to say. He thought it best to disregard her unwillingness to share. He didn't know her well enough to pursue restricted answers. Hearing the close of Rick's car door, he thought it best to be on his way. He motioned toward the car before inviting Tabatha along.

"So you coming with us - or are you gun' stay behind and starve?"

Tabatha furrowed her brows before answering him. "…I'll go. Just don't fuck with me."

Tabatha crossed her arms defiantly and started walking. Her steps were well paced and strong. She seemed neutral about joining the group for dinner. Internally, she had begun to question her judgment. Could she _really _trust the strangers? On her way to the car, Tabatha took one last look at the lonely convenience store. She hadn't seen any living people in roughly nine months. The first to find her since then had been Rick and his companions. One would expect her to feel relief and acceptance. On the contrary, all Tabatha felt was dismay.

The two stragglers approached the Hyundai and climbed into the car. Tabatha slid into the front right seat and Daryl climbed into the back. When he situated himself, he found himself sitting next to Marlowe. He said nothing and merely turned his head. Once out of her sigh, he rolled his eyes. The car ride back to the prison was sure to be a quiet one. He expected awkward pauses or, perhaps, no conversation whatsoever. As Rick started the engine, "The Gambler" began to play again. He eased into his seat, closed his eyes, and began to relax.

"You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away and know where to run."


End file.
